


Atlantis in the Making

by turnabout



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, like intense pining, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 21:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnabout/pseuds/turnabout
Summary: Somewhere along the line, Marcus had gotten lost in his own head.





	Atlantis in the Making

For all that he gave a lot, Marcus wasn’t using to _getting_ from God. He slept on couches, on stone floors, on motel beds—and rarely with company. He ate what came his way. He kept few possessions. Sure, he enjoyed his tape player, but as far as indulgences went, he didn’t think that one was particularly damning.

 

To have companionship at all was pleasant. Tomas’ quiet snore from across the hotel room was a comforting white noise, and during the day Tomas made for good conversation. Good silence, too. Marcus may not feel God all that often these days, but Tomas was omnipresent in his own way. His fears, goals and warmth had worked their way into Marcus like a dandelion into a sidewalk.

 

It was tempting to think of Tomas as a gift. Very, very tempting. What grounded Marcus was the fine line forming in between Tomas’ brow, which he had watched form over the past eight months. It was a sign of stress, but also of an internal life that Marcus wasn’t privy to. Tomas was his own person, on a separate mission from Marcus. He was not a gift. They were parallel lines, and that was all.  

 

Marcus refused to imagine that they’d stay together forever, fighting evil. It wasn’t fair to himself, or to Tomas.

 

But.

 

He was still human, after all. And if God dared to send Marcus into the darkest places on Earth, to force him to stare into the face of evil without respite, then Marcus was allowed a reprieve. His sin of choice was to imagine an alternate reality: one where he could have what he wanted, the second he wanted it. And he wanted Tomas.

 

He needed clear rules, he knew. He couldn’t dream up anything that would impact his real life relationship with Tomas. His daydreams couldn’t be too close to reality. There was a clear distinction in his mind between the flesh and blood Tomas and the one he conjured up in quiet moments.

 

The distinction lay in the information that Marcus didn’t know—he knew how his fictional Tomas gasped in pleasure, but not the real one. This kept it clean and easy, so when a demon dug it’s fingers in to those thoughts, Marcus wouldn’t be overwhelmed.

 

At first, he kept it simple; he stuck to the kind of sexual fantasy that was innocent enough that if it were used against him, he wouldn’t feel too bad about it. He figured that if he and Tomas were to sleep together, it would probably be simple, the first few times. As far as Marcus knew, Tomas had never been with a man before. Although Marcus was sure Tomas would be a quick study, Marcus liked the idea of showing Tomas the ropes.

 

Marcus didn’t like the idea of being sentimental about sex, but he daydreamed that Tomas’ fingers shook as he unbuttoned Marcus’ jeans, and he found it sweet. Tomas’ fingers may have been clumsy, but his movements were thoughtful, drawn out. He would constantly glance up at Marcus, meeting his eyes for confirmation that Marcus was enjoying himself. Marcus would whisper small encouragements into the shell of Tomas’ ear. The noises of pleasure he got in response were half prayer, half curse.

 

He had debated for a while the different ways he might want to kiss Tomas—sweetly, aggressively, hungrily. It was nearly pathetic; the amount of thought Marcus had put into the shape of Tomas’ mouth, the dips and rises of it. It had lead him to the conclusion that he’d take Tomas’ lower lip in between his own, trapping it with his teeth. He wants Tomas to gasp into his mouth. He wants Tomas to fall apart. He wants to do it right. 

 

He would move Tomas with his hands, instead of his words. Fingers looped into belt loops, a hand on the back of the neck, arms wrapped around Tomas’ waist. Tomas looked desperately lost, each time.

 

“Are you sure?” Marcus would ask.

 

Tomas nod. He’d kiss Marcus. Not the same way as Marcus kissed him; Tomas kissed softly, with growing intensity. It was as if he was discovering Marcus as he went, and learning there wasn’t anything he could do that would earn him admonishment.

 

Sometimes Marcus would top, sometimes Tomas would. It didn’t matter for Marcus. What he enjoyed was watching the line of Tomas’ neck as his head fell back. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.  Tomas’ confidence grew as the fantasies did, and he began to lose himself in Marcus, in the moment. He’d run his nails down Marcus’ back, his arms, not even noticing he had done it until after, when he stretched out next to Marcus.

 

Sensations half way between pain and pleasure were his favorites, and this Tomas knew this. Marcus was unsure how he had decided that Tomas would be territorial. That had never appealed to him in others before, and yet. Tomas liked to bite Marcus’ neck, lightly and often, leaving traces of himself. Something about that seemed to get Marcus going, and who was he to deny himself?

 

Marcus liked to be close. He liked to have his nose pressed into Tomas’ hair when they fucked, or to be able to kiss his spine.  Despite it being his own fantasy, sometimes Tomas was not always agreeable to that.

 

“Look at me,” he’d demand.

 

“Why?” Marcus would ask, but he already knew why. He obeyed anyway.

 

Tomas would look up at him with those teasing brown eyes, and he would smirk. There was something coy about him, like he knew how tightly he had the older man wrapped around his little finger. He’d groan into Marcus’ shoulder when Marcus hit the right spot, and then would bite down to stay quiet.

 

“I want to hear you,” Marcus said.

 

“The neighbors don’t,” he said, although he groaned regardless. “Si—justo aquí.”

 

 

It had been easy, to start with. Something to help Marcus get off. He had enough years of repressing his sexuality to know that whatever thoughts he tucked away had the habit of returning ten times larger. This way, he relieved pressure. He found himself staring into space, instead of focusing on what Tomas’ shoulder blades looked like as he nailed boards over windows. It was a little easier to notice Tomas’ thin waist and broad shoulders when he had already run with those thoughts as far as they could take him.

 

Only once or twice had Tomas waved a hand in front of Marcus’ face over a meal. All things considered, that wasn’t too bad.

 

What had started as an occasional indulgence on Marcus’ part had now morphed into the only thing he could get off to. Nothing else grabbed his interest the same way. Marcus blamed his own personal investment into the fantasy—it was hot because it was detailed, not because his dick was loyal to a daydream of Tomas.

 

He’d jack off in bathrooms, mostly. If his showers were longer than they needed to be, Tomas didn’t comment. Marcus also didn’t give him the opportunity to. It was hard to make eye contact with Tomas after that, particularly when Tomas was tucked beneath the sheets in only his undershirt. He stretched out like a cat, relaxed and content, and that matched up too neatly with Marcus’ imagination.

 

Tomas had been interrupting Marcus’ stream of thought more frequently, these days. He would tap on car windows, ask Marcus about something around them, or nudge Marcus’ shoulder. Once Marcus met his eyes, Tomas would give him a small smile, and oh, it ruined whatever his mind had conjured up. He couldn’t picture Tomas’ eyes with the same detail he could look at them with. They were always lighter in reality.

 

After a particularly passionate fantasy, Marcus had fallen quiet for nearly three hours afterwards, and that had worried Tomas. At first, Marcus had ignored the little looks Tomas had sent his way, but then there was a hand cupping the back of his neck.

 

“Are you well?” Tomas asked.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright,” he’d replied. Tomas’ hand stayed for a few seconds too long, his thumb rubbing small circles.

 

Marcus knew, on some level, that it was Tomas’s empathy that did him in. Tomas always seemed ready and waiting for the moment Marcus needed him, like an antique’s dealer that had been handed an ancient table. For a while it rubbed him the wrong way. After watching Tomas throw himself at desperate situations time and time again, Marcus he realized it didn’t come from a place of pity. It was just the cut of Tomas’ cloth.  He was kind, he was earnest, and he was bound to be the death of Marcus.

 

That was when things got much, much harder.

 

The fantasies started hitting him in the middle of the day, prompted by very little. That wasn’t so bad. What worried Marcus was that they were no longer exclusively sexual.

 

Once, Tomas was standing in the kitchen of the home of a woman they were exorcising. It was a small place—a bungalow, on a riverbank. The entire time they were in the area, it had smelled damp, like it had just rained or was just about to. The sky had been constantly grey, and sleep had been hard to come by.

 

Tomas had been holding a mug, leaning against the sink. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and he was rubbing at them. Just them, the clouds parted. Afternoon sunlight streamed in behind him, and the silhouette of him lit up like a stained glass window.

 

“Look at that,” Marcus had remarked, and Tomas had turned to look behind him.

 

“Think it’s a sign?” Tomas had asked. When he turned back to Marcus, he had a tired smile on his face. It struck Marcus like a kick in the ribs.

 

 _It would be great to kiss him right now_ , came to mind, and then the picture was there. Suddenly, it was their house Marcus was envisioning, and the sun was rising instead of setting, and they had their entire lives in front of them. Marcus leaned in and could kiss that Tomas, who would be sleepy but appreciative.

 

Out loud, he said, “Let’s hope.” He accepted the mug of coffee that Tomas handed him silently. He was careful not to let their fingers brush.

 

Soon, when they were driving across the country, Marcus found the idea of taking a road trip with Tomas—without a demon waiting for them on the other end—appealing. He knew some stars he could show Tomas, but maybe Tomas already knew about those constellations. Maybe Marcus could invent some, then, and say they were famous in Celtic legend. Surely, Tomas would buy that, if he kept the stories realistic enough.

 

More appealing than that thought was the idea of taking Tomas to Italy. Rome wasn’t the right atmosphere for the kind of vacation Marcus wanted. Venice, maybe. He could cash in on some favors and get them a grand old hotel room; one that overlooked the canals. They would go in March, when nothing smelled, and before the flooding started. He wondered how Tomas would react to being in a place that would some day be lost forever. Beautiful today, gone tomorrow. An Atlantis in the making.

 

Somewhere along the line, Marcus had gotten lost in his own head.

 

Tomas noticed he was distant. A few demons had made digs about it, but Marcus was well aware of the version of Tomas he had created and the versions that demons conjured up. Their Tomas was sweet but demanding—his was funnier, more carefree. Their Tomas was always professing his love. Marcus suspected that for all that Tomas was a hopeless romantic, he would not be quick to say _I love you._ Not even in Marcus’ perfect world could he imagine that being the case.

 

It had gone too far, Marcus knew.  He was losing himself in the thought of what it might be like to have a lover, instead of taking what he needed from the real world. He had every right to do that now—he wasn’t much of a priest anymore, was he? He was a free man.

 

Marcus had been lonely, and God had lead him to a friend. It was his own greed that lead to the desire for _more_. More time, more energy, more love. He was an old street dog who Tomas had been dumb enough to feed, and now Marcus couldn’t leave him alone.

 

He did his best to be better. To find absolution in someone else.

 

“I might not be back until late,” Marcus warned Tomas, in a hotel room in Wichita. Tomas sat on the bed, his feet bare. Something about that was unbearably intimate, and Marcus glanced away. Tomas looked away from the TV and at Marcus. There was the concern in his gaze.

 

“Do you need help?”

 

“Nah, just going to blow off some steam,” he said.

 

For a second, Tomas looked like he might say something about that. Instead, he settled on, “Okay. Be careful.”

 

Marcus chewed on his lower lip, and then nodded. “Okay,” he said, and tried not to think about anything at all as he headed to the bar. 

 

He didn’t think about the taste of the beer. He didn’t think about the low lighting, or the bad music. He didn’t think about who he picked up—just gave him enough of a once over to decide the man seemed nice enough, and was perfectly handsome. Greg, Marcus thought his name was. He shook Marcus’ hand and pulled him in close so he could introduce himself over the song that was booming.

 

Greg was fresh out of a divorce, had brown eyes, and smiled easily. He kissed Marcus first, and Marcus let him lead. Marcus focused carefully on sensation, on flavor. The taste of someone else’s saliva was distracting enough, and then there was a mouth on his neck and Marcus was interested.

 

Hands were on his hips, and soon after that they were in a grimy bathroom. Marcus enjoyed being pressed up against the stall door, and having the fine hairs at the base of his skull pulled. He couldn’t clear the song playing in the bar anymore, but could feel the vibrations of it. He was doing fine, he thought.

 

Marcus made the mistake of relaxing. He shut his eyes, and suddenly he couldn’t see who was touching him anymore. Greg could have been anyone. Greg faded into Tomas.

 

He tried valiantly to focus—to make the distinction that this man had salt and pepper hair, and was much closer to his own age. Greg was probably much better suited to Marcus; he was interested in men, interested in Marcus, and wasn’t sworn to celibacy. The moment Marcus grounded himself was the moment that Marcus felt the fire in his gut flicker out.

 

There was no more appeal in the body pressing against him. He was on the verge of going soft. He stilled, cursing himself. Greg stopped.

 

“Everything okay?” he asked.

 

Marcus nodded, and then pushed back into the other man. He shut his eyes, and Tomas had him pinned against the stall door. It was sad, and Marcus knew it. But he had come all this way, and if this is what it took to get him up, he’d take it.

 

It was different from Marcus’ usual material, he gave himself that. He’d never fantasize about Tomas jerking him off in a stall at a dive bar. He didn’t like the idea of Tomas sinking to his knees on a dirty bathroom floor, so the location changed—they were in a house, and they had stepped away to discuss the exorcism at hand, at Tomas’ insistence.

 

As soon as the bathroom door closed behind them, Tomas would pull Marcus close. Marcus found himself laughing into their kiss.

 

“What’s so funny?” Tomas asked.

 

“You. I had you pegged for the blushing virgin type.”

 

Tomas laughed, then. It was a warm noise, followed by a warm mouth, pressing kisses along the underside of his jaw. “Tonto.”

 

Greg rose back up from his knees when Marcus got too close, and Marcus sunk down to repay the favor. He didn’t make eye contact on his way down, and let himself get lost in his own head.

 

Sucking Tomas off was pretty high on his list of fantasies.

 

In the bathroom of the family’s home, he would have no problem swallowing Tomas down. For all of his quick wit, Marcus knew when to shut up. His tongue could be practically velvet when he wanted it to be. He liked to think he would give Tomas the best blowjob he ever had. In another life, Marcus’ oral talents would elicit the kind of love letters Jessica had received. Better, even.

 

Tomas would grab tightly onto Marcus’ hair, but Marcus wouldn’t let Tomas fuck his mouth with wild abandon. He was a master at drawing things out, at making climax all that much more satisfying. He knew which veins had the most sensation, and he would take his damn time with them, thank you very much. He could relax his throat better than most, and had anyone else Tomas had been with done that?

 

“No,” Tomas panted. “Dios, quit talking.”

 

Marcus grinned and went down on him humming. Tomas did not last much longer than that. Above him, Greg finished quickly.

 

Greg jacked Marcus off. It didn’t take much. His head was spinning, and he had to bite his own tongue to keep from saying the wrong name when he came. Time passed. He tucked himself back into his jeans, listened to the base thump throughout the bathroom.

 

Marcus leaned back against the stall wall, and caught his breath. At some point, Greg must have left. Marcus was too busy staring at his own shoes. He thought about Tomas’ smile when the sun had come out. He wondered if he could come back from this.

 

When he left the stall, he caught a glance of himself in the mirror and grimaced. His clothes were disheveled, his lips were bruised, and there was a hickey the size of a lime on his neck. Marcus splashed water on his face, and thought about places he could buy a scarf that might still be open. Maybe Tomas wouldn’t care—maybe he would raise an eyebrow, make a snide comment and then leave it be. Maybe he’d say nothing at all. Marcus doubted it.

 

Selfishly, Marcus was glad that since Jessica, Tomas hadn’t broken his vows. That was good for everyone’s sake. Tomas also didn’t seem to be as good as Marcus was at compartmentalizing. After all, he was the kind of man who held on to old love letters.

 

Not that Marcus could judge anyone for carrying a torch. Not now, nor ever again.

 

Maybe Tomas thought about Jessica, or other women—but he hadn’t stumbled since they left Chicago. He hadn’t mentioned it to Marcus, but who knew?

 

The trip home was far too short. Before long, he sat in the parking spot in front of their room. For the first time in a while, he prayed.

 

He prayed that scarf wrapped around his neck was subtle, that Tomas would already be asleep, or that Tomas wouldn’t care. But when Marcus opened the motel room door, the lights were on, and Tomas was still propped up in bed, reading. His glasses were perched low on his nose, and the look he gave Marcus reminded him of a strict school teacher. Marcus wanted to sink into the floor.

 

Tomas’ eyes narrowed at the scarf, and then he turned back to his book. “Did you have fun?”

 

“S’alright,” Marcus said softly. He found himself unable to move. He was trapped in the doorway, smelling like beer and someone else’s cologne.

 

Tomas cared.

 

It was hard to miss it. His jaw was clenched tight enough that Marcus could see a muscle twitching from across the room. His posture was suddenly rigid. “I’m glad,” Tomas said. After a beat, he added, “New scarf?”

 

“Not a fan?” Marcus asked. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

 

Tomas stood up suddenly. For a moment, it looked like he had surprised himself. He closed the distance between them anyway. Shoeless, and dressed for bed, he cut a softer figure in the low light. Marcus struggled to avoid meeting Tomas’ eyes. Instead, he stared at that fine line in between Tomas’ eyebrows, and resisted the urge to rub it smooth.

 

“It doesn’t suit you,” Tomas said quietly. He unwrapped it from Marcus’ neck slowly, his movements cautious. His eyes found the bruise instantly, and Marcus felt like a bug under a microscope.

 

“What are you thinking?” Marcus asked, and he hated how desperate he sounded.

 

Tomas’ tore his gaze away from Marcus’ neck. “It doesn’t matter,” Tomas said. He smiled sadly, and Marcus felt like he had been stabbed in the ribs. He wanted to tear through space and time and start the evening over—to do something, anything, to keep Tomas from looking at him like that.

 

“Tell me anyway,” he said. His mouth was dry.

 

“It isn’t—it’s not—“ Tomas clasped his hands in front of his mouth, thinking. Marcus put a hand on the back of Tomas’ neck, and immediately regretted it. Tomas relaxed into the touch, and Marcus felt something ache in his chest. “Where do you go?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“When you’re here, but not here.”

 

A wave of fear hit Marcus, along with the thought of _he knows._ But Tomas didn’t look disgusted. He looked earnest, and sad, and worried, and Marcus knew he’d give Tomas whatever version of the truth made him happy.

 

“I—well. I like to imagine how my life could have gone, if circumstances were different.”

 

“Are you unhappy?”

 

“No,” Marcus said quickly. “No, the work we’re doing is important. And doing it with you is… more than I could have asked for.”

 

“But you’re lonely.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

Tomas sighed, and the space between them was now only a foot. Marcus loved and dreaded that gap. It was the distance between fiction and reality. In another life, Marcus would step forward, Marcus would cup Tomas’ jaw, and tilt his head up so he could—

 

\--Tomas’ nose brushed against his, unsure. He stared up at Marcus, and Marcus was in trouble. He had never been in so much trouble in his life. Tomas leaned in and kissed him.

 

It was light, and unsure. After a heartbeat, Tomas pulled back. “I apologize,” he started, pulling away. Marcus stared at the widening gap between them and the reality of what had just happened hit him.

 

“Don’t,” Marcus said, and he pulled Tomas in.

 

It was different from how he imagined it. Tomas surged up into him, fingers tangling in Marcus’ shirt. He moved with confidence, and kissed with a finesse that made Marcus both jealous and grateful to those who had come before him. Every nerve in Marcus’ body was on fire, interested and ready to be touched in whatever way Tomas would allow.

 

“Stay,” Tomas muttered, kissing the skin behind Marcus’ ear. “Stay here with me.”

 

Marcus breathed in deeply. Tomas’ hands were wrapped around him tightly, holding him in place. He’d pictured this moment a thousand different ways, and yet it none of those scenarios had felt like this, like he was holding something terribly small and fragile with hands that were too rough. That weren’t built for this.

 

“I’m all yours,” Marcus said.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I read literally everything that was in the tag that was in English, and then I vowed to write more. Here it is!   
> Please forgive my Spanish.


End file.
